


My Adventure, by Belladonna Baggins nee Took

by Thimblerig



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Backstory, Caution: Occasional Moments of Poetry, Gen, Girl Power, Humor, Original Flavour-ish, POV First Person, Travelogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:40:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/pseuds/Thimblerig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gandalf exclaimed once: <em>'That I should live to be 'Good morninged' by a son of Belladonna Took!'</em>  Bilbo's mum has a story to tell and this is it.  Holidays by the Sea, Elves, and much Falling in the Water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Leave The Shire

**Author's Note:**

> (Ported from my old FFNet account under the name Thimble.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The Took family … was liable to produce in every generation strong characters of peculiar habits and even adventurous temperament._
> 
>  
> 
> _The Fellowship of the Ring_

 

' **Y** ou shouldn't smoke,' I said firmly, 'it'll take years off your life.'

'Is that so?' said Gandalf.

Possibly I should describe the scene in which this conversation took place. I was in a tree. Gandalf – you've probably heard of Gandalf, he's a wizard – was sitting with his back against it, wiggling his scrawny toes in the grass, and smoking a pipe. A little blue butterfly hovered at the edge of his hat, quite oblivious to the fumes. Birds were singing, bees were humming, the ruckus going on down the lane in Great Smials was almost muffled.

'Your hair's grubby,' I added. 'You haven't been looking after it.'

'I regret, Miss Took, that the privations of the road …'

'I wouldn't know,' I said, and sighed.

He cocked a bushy eyebrow at me. I pointed down the lane. 'It's my older brothers,' I said, 'seven of them. They have forsaken their essential Tookishness and desire respectability. It's a mug's game and I told them so.

'More to the point, they won't let me go off on an Adventure. I'm only thirty-two and I need permission from my family. I have to admit that I forsook the behaviour appropriate to a young hobbit when I expressed my displeasure at their refusal to give it. They are shouting at my bedroom door right now.'

'Ah?'

'They appear to be under the erroneous impression that I am in there, sulking. My youngest sister, Mirabella, is aiding that impression by banging on the wall every now and then.  _I_  snuck out the window.'

'I recognize you now,' he said. 'You are that Belladonna Took that once set off all my fireworks in one ghastly holocaust –'

'I was much younger then. It was an accident.'

'And staged a masque of Bandobras Took inventing golf –'

' _That_  was a team effort.'

'And planted the Green with daffodils –'

'I  _helped_  plant the daffodils.'

'And defenestrated the -'

'That was me. It was very ugly. And I glued it together better than new afterwards.' I smiled, thinking of old triumphs. A thought struck me.

'Are you not that Gandalf that sent my older brother Hildifone on an Adventure?'

'I have many names,' he said, 'in many lands. Hildifone did know me as Gandalf.'

'Well? Do you have any more Adventures? I could go on one. And climb a tree, and see the sea, and catch a bee – well, maybe not the bee …'

'Hildifone never came back,' he said, chewing his moustache. The blue butterfly was hovering by his ear at this point.

'Knowing Hildy,' I said, 'he's having a party somewhere and has forgotten the time. Or he got lefts and rights mixed up again and is visiting the Swertings in the Sunny Lands. Pleeeease. I won't play with your fireworks. I  _promise_.'

'Belladonna Took,' Gandalf said, 'I do not keep Adventures in my back pocket to entertain young Hobbits. You must seek elsewhere.' It was at about this point that a little bird, black-and-white with a bright red head and green on its wings fluttered out of the trees and perched on the wizard's shoulder. It chirped into his right ear and his eyes went wide and round. 'In any case,' he said, hauling on his socks and boots, 'I must be off. A matter of some urgency has come to my attention. Perhaps we can continue this discussion another time.' And he left, just like that.

There I was, with the butterfly, left to our own devices.

'Butterfly,' says I, 'just what is an Adventure, anyway? Exploring the burrows of my ancestors on the banks of Great River – that's an Adventure.'

The butterfly bobbed up and down, as if to say 'Yes.'

'Going camping, by comparison, is just a minor amusement and no harm could come of it.' The bug bobbed sideways, agreeing with my negative (the  _no harm_  part). 'Excellent!' I said, clapping my hands.

I needed some camping gear.

**T** his was actually very tricky. I needed to plan and execute raids on several sites of strategic importance that would all be guarded at this time of day. I called to mind the words of my Great-Great-Uncle Bandobras:  _Audacity, Tenacity, Plasticity._

_Audacity_  involved climbing  _back_  up an ivy-covered hillside, through a window that gets smaller every year - drat the thing - and into my bedroom. Dear Mirabella was still thumping on the wall with a broomstick, bless her. I put a finger to my lips and hurriedly packed some clothes and hooked my bow off the wall. Then I was squirreling out the window again and skidding down the hillside with no-one else the wiser.

_Tenacity_  meant hiding in deep cover for several hours, waiting for the kitchen to  _finally_  be empty. I hurriedly packed some dried meat, flour, tea, a few raisins – and realized to my horror that my little brother Isengar had been sitting in an inglenook watching me the whole time. He's actually quite easy to bribe – you may find this information useful someday.

The last task required  _Plasticity_  in both body and mind. Planning a route through Great Smials is difficult at the best of times. Avoiding all the inhabitants (not counting younger siblings) is almost impossible. Fortunately, I knew to climb up the tower Great-Great-Grandmother built as a folly, down the inside, into a basement, through a secret passage I found by accident and up a disused chimney. This perilous route got me to the Study, where I had last seen my tinder-box and lantern. I found them in the clutter on the mantelpiece and an unexpected bonus in the chair by the little fire:

Dad was awake.

'Adamanta,' he said cheerfully in his wavering voice.

'No Dad,' I said, kissing him on the top of his scaly, wrinkled head, 'I'm Belladonna.'

'What was that?'

'Belladonna!' I shouted. 'Your daughter! Dad! I'm going away on a trip!'

'Oh, that's lovely, enjoy yourself, dear.'

If you think about it, that constitutes permission from the head of the family, so everything I did later was perfectly justified.

'Dad! I brought you some flowers!' I continued, but his eyes were closing again. I put the daisies, a little crumpled, in a vase, and poured him some more water, then back up the chimney. Little did I know that this would lead to the most dire encounter of all.

**I**  was on the road out of Tuckborough, a pretty path with flowering hedges, when I saw him. I tried to roll out of sight under a hedge but it was too late – I'd been spotted. A pair of perfectly manicured, exquisitely combed feet stopped beside my hiding place.

'Are you all right, Miss Belladonna?' he said anxiously.

'There is no need for a  _Miss_ ,' I said irritably, rolling from the hedge and dusting my skirts. 'Carting ten barrows of daffodil bulbs, on a moonless night, together, surely puts us on first name terms. Does it not?'

He blushed and looked at his feet. So did I.

I didn't know why, but for the past six months I hadn't been able to look at Bungo Baggins without getting red in the face. It was ruining a perfectly sensible relationship between adventuress and, er, sidekick. It was  _embarrassing_. It made me want to, well, blush.

He looked at my backpack, and at the bow slung across it.

'I'm going away on a trip,' I said breezily, 'I don't expect to be long.'

He didn't say anything. I noticed that there was a large bundle of carnations hidden behind his back. I knew how long he'd been growing them. Aargh.

'Look,' I said, 'I'm almost thirty-three. I'm going to be respectable soon, whether I want to or not. I could not bear to be respectable without doing  _something_  of note.'

'You could be noted for growing the finest garden in the Shire,' he said desperately. 'I could help you.'

'It's not the same,' I said, hopping from one foot to another.

'Do you need a –'

'It's just a camping trip,' I said. 'And practically  _in the Shire_. How much harm can I come to  _in the Shire?_ '

'I –'

'I'll be ever  _ever_  so careful, I promise you. And I always keep my promises to you.'

He wrung his hands, mashing the flowers slightly. Then he sighed and nodded. I sidled up and gave him a quick peck on the cheek before running down the road.

I didn't look back.

_Next: The Old Forest_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _While I was using all of the Middle Earth books as a reference, this owes more to_ The Hobbit _(the book) than_ The Lord of the Rings.
> 
> EDIT:
> 
> There is a very lovely book cover for this by Papaveracee at: http://papaveracee.tumblr.com/post/46749490256/my-adventure-by-belladonna-baggins-nee-took-by and I will attach it to the top of this if I can ever work out how. Go check it out and tell Papaveracee how wonderful their book covers are.


	2. The Old Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'And elves, sir! … Some like kings, terrible and splendid; and some as merry as children.'
> 
> The Fellowship of the Ring

**I** 'd been in the Old Forest for three days and, frankly, I was unimpressed.

The Old Forest is one of the borders of Buckland. The other side is the Brandywine River, which is where the Shire used to leave off, back in the day. Because of being across the  _old_  border, some of our more stay-at-home Shire hobbits are a bit leery of the Brandybucks, thinking them dangerously foreign. In my experience,  _dangerously foreign_  meant lots of cups of tea poured down my throat by elderly aunties. Meanwhile, countless nevvies and niecelings would pin back my ears with  _quite_   _extravagant_  tales of the Old Forest.

Ooh. Spooky.

Walking among the dark, towering,  _quiet_  tree-trunks, I had begun to suspect that the truth was that none of them had put so much as a toe in this leaf-mold. There were no goblins, no wolves, and no walking trees. Admitted, it was a bit disconcerting when a rotten branch crashed down near me, but I'm a good dodger and I took care to sleep in clearings. I felt a bit sorry for the place, really. It had a cranky, lonely, left-out-in-the-rain feel. I kept wanting to lend it a towel and a very large comb.

In any case, aimless wanderings had taken me to a little river valley lined with willows. All golden it was, warm in the sun, and the bugs crooning _Sleep, doze, paddle your toes, ever the sun and the river flows_  – something like that. It was about one in the afternoon and I was just settling down for a nap when I heard singing. It wasn't bugs, this time.

_O ho_ , thinks I,  _denizens!_  and leapt to my feet. Leaving my pack behind, I trotted quietly over the rocky banks and around the bend.

It was lovely. The water collected in a pool, deep and green, spread in white lilies. Perched on a rock, her white skirts and flaxen hair trailing in the water, was the most beautiful being I had ever seen. Next to her, her companion stood straight as a spear. His hair was long and midnight black and caught back with some kind of a comb. He held a spear loose in one hand and looked fondly down at his friend. They were singing:

_Fa la la lily_  
 _The fair-throated lily_  
 _The river is dreaming_  
 _And gleaming her water_  
 _A daughter to mountains_  
 _A fountain her child_  
 _And wild her pillow_  
 _A billow, a notion_  
 _Of ocean_  
 _In dark trees_  
 _Ease in sleep and ease in dreaming_  
Willows weep, o'er water leaning  
 _Still_  
 _Merrily chancing_  
 _The butterfly dancing_  
 _Is kissing the lily  
_ _So fa la la lily!_

and more like that. It was very pretty: I couldn't help clapping. The dark one looked up in surprise, lost his balance, and fell into the water with a squawk. I started forward to help, caught my ankle in a root, and fell in too. How embarrassing.

**I**  am an unusual hobbit, in that I am quite fond of tree-climbing. Hobbits don't climb trees, unless they are wild hobbits from long-ago (clad in skins) avoiding ferocious wolves and savage rabbits and don't know enough to dig a nice snug hole. So my aunties tell me, in any case. Hobbits don't swim, either.  _It must gladden their hearts_ , I thought desperately,  _that I shall drown true to my species. Help!_  I drew breath to scream, which was a mistake, for I breathed in water. And then I was going down.

I can't honestly tell you what happened next. I mean, I remember it vividly but it was very strange and I suspect that at least part of it was a hallucination caused by lack of air. First there was green-gold water around me but it darkened and chilled. I sank, it seemed, for an age, for a forever, to the roots of the world. Dark things were there, old and great beyond my comprehension. I quailed as an eye the size of a mountain opened beside me. It gleamed silver in the dark and I considered the virtues of smallness. On, on I fell.

My chest burned. My head ached; the cold bit to my bones. I was lost in the watery night.  _Belladonna!_  something cried,  _Look up, Belladonna!_  so I did. There was a trail of silver bubbles above my head and I thought muzzily  _If I follow that I can get out of here_. I kicked my feet – I'd heard that helps – but I couldn't seem to move. There was a black string wrapped around my ankle, hair-fine. I reached to break it but couldn't. I reached further and realised that it was the skinny end of something's  _tail_ , that widened to immeasurable size. What's worse, there were eyes along every inch of it, and mouths, and it was starting to wind around me and …

Annoyed as I was that I had broken my promise to Bungo not to get killed, I was still pleased that it was happening in such a dramatic fashion. If I had to go, then it might as well be with style. And it got even better. Suddenly, two figures of shining light appeared from above. Great lords of the upper-air were they or so it seemed and they laid about them with weapons of fire and there was a great thundering in the deep and I felt the coils about me clench in pain – which hurt me too I might add – and then I was free!

On reflection, I'd say that it was  _all_  hallucination, except for the drowning part.

**T** he next thing that I knew, I was hanging upside down over someone's shoulder being pounded on the back. There was water streaming out of my mouth and nose and it was making me splutter. 'Put me down!' I choked, and they did, and watched me carefully as I coughed out the last of the water.

I stood shakily and realised that my nose was about level with the knots of their girdles. Yes, I had been rescued by Big People. I snuck a peek at their ears, which confirmed a tentative theory formed earlier: they were Elves! Then we sat on some rocks to talk, our clothes gently steaming in the sun.

'Alas for the little child lost in the woods,' said the black-haired one, 'we must return her to her family.'

'I'm not a little child!' I said indignantly. 'I'm thirty-two!'

'A thousand years ago is as yesterday to an Elf,' said the blonde one. 'In our terms –'

'You are just a baby,' her friend said.

'Well, how are old are you two then?' I asked grumpily.

The blonde Elf looked bland. 'Thirty-nine.'

'And a half!'

'We're as good as twins.'

'We were meant to be together.'

'Though he is from Greenwood the Great.'

'And she is from the Garden of Singing Gold, the Dreamflower.'

'I am Mirendil.'

'I am Ethrendil.'

'We are very pleased to meet you,' they said together.

I stood up from the rocks and dropped a wobbly curtsey. 'I am Belladonna,' I said, as formally as I knew how, 'of the House of Took, in Tuckborough, in the Shire.'

'Where is that?'

'You're not from around here, are you?'

What followed was a fairly confused explanation. Apparently, Mirendil and Ethrendil were from  _two different_  Elfhomes. Their families had been visiting a third Elfhome for a meeting. These two had met someone of their own age for the very first time and struck up an instant friendship. Then they had decided to go off together on a holiday. I was flabbergasted. It seems so much more foolish when someone else does it. Still, they were Elves, and I figured that they knew what they were doing. After all, they had saved my life once already. Which reminded me:

'Mirendil and Ethrendil,' I said, 'you gave me back my life today, albeit somewhat soggily. If there is any service I can render to you, to the ends of the earth, it is given.'

They looked a little embarrassed, there.

Ethrendil – the dark one – whispered in Mirendil's ear. She shrugged, and whispered back. Then Ethrendil said to Mirendil, a little louder: 'Well, we _do_  need a guide.'

'A guide?' I interjected. 'I can do that! I know all the land around here. Where do you want to go?'

'The Sea,' said Mirendil.

_Next: Outfitting_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator's Notes:
> 
> The Shire was settled in 1601 (Grand Reckoning). The Oldbucks settled land across the Brandywine in 2340, changing their name to Brandybuck.
> 
> On the Elves' names: -ndil is a common root for Elvish names, meaning something on the order of 'lover of' (Elendil could be translated as either 'star-lover' or 'elf-friend'). This scholar can offer no more information as to the meaning of Ethrendil, however. The first half of Mirendil probably comes from Mír (jewel), though another possibility is mereth (feast), (an excellent name for a Hobbit!)


	3. Outfitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So Thráin and Thorin with what remained of their followers … made a home in exile in the east of the Ered Luin beyond the Lune …they prospered after a fashion and their numbers slowly increased._
> 
> _The Return of the King, Appendix A  
> _

**H** obbits have long known where the Sea lies – go West and West again, over the Tower Hills and further. A bare handful of folk still travel through the Shire on their way to the Blue Mountains, where the Dwarves live, or to the Grey Havens for Elves. There has even been the odd Hobbit, like my older brother Hildifone, who has travelled to the Sea. Also like him, some of them do not return. Elder (non-odd) Hobbits think it uncanny, and do not speak of it. In any case, travelling to the Sea is definitely an Adventure. I was in a dilemma. My heart leapt and my belly sank down to my toes.

The two Elves before me had saved me from drowning. They were also travelling to the Sea and in need of a guide (and also quite  _lost_ , having been turned around in the Old Forest and owning a very out-of-date map).  _I_  owed them a favour. On the other hand, my friends and relations, in particular Bungo Baggins, would be upset if I just disappeared for the several months it would take to get them there. A solution occurred to me:

'All we need do is proceed through the Shire (I can explain things to my friend Bungo), take the road across the Tower Hills and –' I brightened as I had another thought. 'Also, Gandalf may still be in the Shire. You probably know him. He knows everything, he can show us the rest of the way!'

'Who is Gandalf?' inquired Mirendil politely. (Mirendil was the blonde Elf.)

'Oh, everyone knows Gandalf. He's a wizard. A bit scruffy, but nice. He did the fireworks for my birthday party. (This is technically true. My birthday happens to be on the same day as the big midsummer celebration, complete with snapdragons, firebangers, and whizzy-jigs. And if you think it's easy to give birthday presents to all of Hobbiton…)

'Fireworks,' said Ethrendil (the dark Elf), rubbing his chin. 'Does this Gandalf wear a grey cloak?'

'Yes!'

They looked at each other. 'Mithrandir,' Mirendil whispered, eyes round. I could tell that they were impressed.

'It is possible that we should go  _around_  the Shire,' said Ethrendil.

'We have no need to meet Mithrandir,' said Mirendil.

And that is how we came to be trudging North, up the Brandywine, away from the Shire. Ah well, Adventures are like that sometimes.

**W** e stopped at a little hamlet on the river for supplies. I had lost my pack in a small accident with a willow tree, only narrowly rescuing my favourite bow, and needed a bit of gear. There was a mill there and not much else except for a smithy, built of large solid stones. There was a wooden sign saying  _Now Under New Management_  that was old and weather-beaten and an elaborate symbol painted on it. Under the sign, two young-looking Dwarves with blue hoods sat on a bench smoking pipes. Mirendil and Ethrendil both ducked behind me. 'Uh oh,' Mirendil said. 'It's Dwarves.'

'And you know what that means,' said Ethrendil.

'You go in,' they chorused. 'Here's some money.' They passed me a heavy little bag and nudged me to the door.

'Excuse me, sirs,' I asked the Dwarves as I went past, 'what does that squiggle on your sign mean?'

'Smithy,' one said gruffly.

'It's a Traveller's Mark,' said the other, 'for those travellers who, coming from a long away, speak no civilized tongue.'

I wanted to ask how, if they come from that far away, they could read the mark, but I had business. I ducked inside. There were two more Dwarves inside, older, with splendid beards. One was fat and one was thin. They were talking quietly but intensely. The thin one looked at me: 'In for a pennywhistle, are ye lass? We'll be with ye soon,' he said, and turned back to his companion. 'As I was saying …' I heard, and 'Ered Luin' and 'Oakenshield could use good Dwarves like …' The other Dwarf wasn't having any of it; he kept shaking his head. Bored, I opened the bag.

Suddenly, both Dwarves were by me, staring at the bright golden coins. I pulled one out, and stared in wonder. It was as wide as my thumb was long, graved with an absolutely  _beautiful_  holly tree with some characters that were probably Elvish around the edge. 'Fancy that,' the fat Dwarf said. He plucked the coin out of my hand, bit it, and handed it back to me, slightly dented. 'Fancy that.'

I found myself slightly offended by all of this.

Standing to my full height (which isn't much, alas), I stuck my nose in the air. 'I wish to examine your wares,' I said grandly. 'If they are of an adequate quality, I might buy something.'

The thin Dwarf chuckled. I could see that the fat Dwarf was irked, but his eyes kept straying to the gold. He gestured to the walls. 'If you've an eye for quality, see for yourself.' I had a look around. Through an open window, I could hear that Mirendil and Ethrendil had gathered up their courage and struck up a conversation with the two outside.

'So you two are Dwarves, huh?'

'You two look weedy enough to be Elves. I see you have the pinched ears, also.'

The equipment fell roughly into two categories. The dusty stuff on the back of the walls was well-made and elegant, in a sturdy kind of way. I saw a rack of truly lovely musical instruments that I admired intensely, though I didn't have space in my pack to take the bass viol away with me, and some swords and axes and things.

'Is that a real beard, or a horse-hair wig?'

Up front, where it was easily reached, was a collection of frying pans, hoes and pokers, sort of thing. They looked well-polished, but a bit shoddy under the shine. I guess the folk around here couldn't afford the fancy stuff.

'Stunted folk.'

'Grass eaters.'

I scrambled over a pile of gear to reach a good brass lantern and almost missed finding a quiver of arrows my size under a heap of hedge clippers. Behind me the older Dwarves were talking again, this time about  _burning_   _Dwarves_ , which I personally think is gruesome.

'Hole-digger

'Tree-lover.'

I found everything I needed, but for one thing. 'I need a knife,' I told the fat one. He waved dismissively at the wall.

'They're too heavy.'

'What about that one?'

'That's a table knife.' He rolled his eyes.

'Perhaps I can help, little lady' intervened the thin one. He hitched up a breech leg and pulled a tiny, tiny little knife out of his sock. In  _my_  hand it was a nice comfortable size.

'This here's a  _bilbo_ ,' he said. 'See those streaky lines on the blade? I folded the steel, many times. This is a  _good_  knife.' He plunged it halfway to the hilt in the oaken counter, and then cut a hair from his beard with it by dropping it across the edge. I couldn't help going  _Oooooh_. He insisted on selling it to me and admired my bow extravagantly, which is fair enough. It is a very nice bow, of laminated horn, that my Great-Aunt Rosabella left me. He said he recognised the maker's mark.

All up, it cost me only two of those big Elvish coins, and they even threw in a penny-whistle. I was feeling very pleased with myself, despite being patted on the head, until I walked out into the sunlight.

There were Mirendil and Ethrendil, and the two Dwarves, shouting at each other, about to tussle.  _Children_. 'What do you think you're doing?' I shouted. 'Show some manners!' and stopped, embarrassed, but they quietened down. My friend the Dwarf picked up the two younger Dwarves and knocked their heads together.

'They called us money-grubbing coal-miners!'

'They called us light-fingered lay-abouts!'

'Fili and Kili!' the Dwarf shouted –

'Mirendil and Ethrendil!' I ordered -

' _Go to your room!'_

It worked, too. Children are children, I guess, whichever species they blacken the name of. Remember: the proper tone of voice does wonders. I bid goodbye to Master Balin (which is his name, I've just remembered), and set off with the Elves behind me.

**I** t wasn't long before we were off up the Brandywine, into the true Wild. It wasn't long before I would need that sharp little bilbo.

_Next: Warg Hunting_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator's Notes:
> 
> Travellers' Marks: Readers familiar with the Baggins Canon will no doubt remember the complicated sigil scratched on Bilbo Baggins' freshly painted door in There And Back Again, indicating that he was a Burglar, or an Expert Treasure-hunter. We have no information as to how widely these Marks were in use, though we know that they predate the Shire, and that Elves and Dwarves were familiar with them.
> 
> burning dwarves: After a great battle at the gates of Khazad-dûm (Moria), to avenge Thrór against Azog the Goblin, there were not enough survivors to bury the dead. But those who fell … were honoured in memory and to this day a Dwarf will say proudly of one of his sires: "he was a burned Dwarf", and that is enough.
> 
> It seems that Belladonna had other business with Balin, as seen by this undated fragment found with the Red Book of Westmarch: Dear Bungo, my trip will take longer than planned – something's come up. A Dwarf called Balin promised to send this note on. Don't worry. B.


	4. Warg Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They spoke in the dreadful language of the Wargs ..._
> 
> _The Hobbit_

**'W** hy are we going up the Baranduin again?' asked Mirendil.

'Because we're following water,' I replied. 'You can't go wrong if you follow water. Up the Brandywine to Lake Evendim, turn left, and down the Lune to the Grey Havens. Nothing simpler.'

Mirendil finished braiding her pale hair away from pointed ears, and tossed it over her shoulder. 'You really do not trust our map, do you?'

'I can't read the writing and it's very out of date,' I said, waving my arms for emphasis. 'It doesn't even have the Shire on it!'

'But it did have Bree, you said,' put in Ethrendil, grey eyes serious under straight black brows.

'Hmph. In any case, I may not know the way but I'm the guide and we can't get lost on the Brandywine. Clear?'

'Yes, Belladonna,' the Elves chorused meekly.

We tramped north for a week or so, leaving the settlements behind and getting into wild country. Mirendil didn't like it; Ethrendil said it was like the soggier bits of Greenwood, and waved his spear as he said it. 'This reminds me of gardening with Bungo Baggins,' I mused as we walked along. 'He'd just bought a little plot of land that had gone wild, and I was helping him clear it. Under all the grass and dry sticks, we found dark slimy places where unclean things grew.'

'What did you do,' they asked, eyes round.

'Grew carrots,' I answered. 'It was excellent dirt, once we had encouraged the bugs and worms to move underground. They were very good for the soil, actually. And we found some rosebushes that had been buried in the weeds. After a little pruning, they made an excellent addition to the garden.' It  _was_  like an overgrown garden there. We kept finding fragments of old stonework where houses and towns had stood, all crumbling under the trees and grasses. It made me sad.

We did a wee bit of hunting for fresh meat - though Mirendil wouldn't touch it - and gossiped avidly with the few folk scrabbling a living out here. We even saw some Wild Hobbits! They were living like otters on the riverbank - we only found them by accident. They talked oddly, like Marish folk but worse, and fed us cauldrons and cauldrons of acorn porridge. We spent a cheerful night in their clay-lined hole, and laughing at each other's accents and singing really old songs.

**I** t was the next morning that we started finding bodies. Deer, rabbits, just lying there with their bellies bitten out and left to rot. Sometimes they were still twitching when we found them. We walked careful, I can tell you!

I'm afraid that I got a little upset when we found the children.

The next thing I knew, we were huddled in a crofter's hut. The kids' parents were in one corner looking sad and scared, and Mirendil and Ethrendil were discussing something urgently. Apparently a dire wolf had come into the land, a  _warg_  from the old tales. Ethrendil wanted to take it on in single combat like a hero of his, Finrod, while Mirendil was planning on going home and bringing back some archers. They didn't notice me until I plumped down between them.

'You know,' I said thoughtfully, 'the Shire is a very quiet place, but this situation is not entirely out of our experience. Why, back in the Long Winter, when the Brandywine froze and wolves crossed over the –'

They interrupted me. 'What's your point, Belladonna?' they said.

I answered, 'Build a wolf trap.'

**I** 've heard that Big People hunt wolves by getting onto horses and chasing them with spears. This seems to me very energetic and a little dangerous. Hobbits hunt wolves by digging pits and covering them with green branches and grass so that they cannot be seen. Then we stake out an animal – usually a goat – where it will bleat and lure the wolf in. I've always felt very sorry for that goat, whose chances of injury are quite high. Since Mirendil and Ethrendil and I were in a thick patch of woods on the river, most of the necessary ingredients for our, hem,  _recipe of death_ , were readily available and easily assembled. We didn't have a goat.

'Hayelp!' I cried. 'I am lost in this horrible forest! All alone! And it's boring! Also scary, which I find unnerving, never having thought that the two emotions could co-exist!' I swung gently on a little trapeze over the pit. We had done an excellent job of disguise and, even knowing it was crafted, I could not tell where the solid ground left off and the cover began. I nervously fingered my sharp little bilbo. When the  _warg_  came, I was to chop a rope. This would release a spring (a whippy little tree) that would send me rapidly up and out of the arena. If that didn't work, Mirendil and Ethrendil waited in a tree to haul me up on a rope. All I could see was their eyes gleaming in the forest canopy.  _Well_ , I thought to myself,  _this'll be something to tell the folk at home._

I was about to recite to the forest  _The Tale of Bandobras Bullroarer_ , a stirring epic, when the bushes rustled and the  _warg_ appeared. It was about the size of a pony, maybe a little taller, with bloodshot eyes and crooked teeth. It was hairy. It cocked its head and circled the clearing warily. I noticed that it was limping – its left front leg had broken and healed badly. It finished circling and sat down, still looking at me curiously. _How smart are_ wargs,  _anyway?_  I wondered, and bleated a little, just for luck. Finally it made up its mind. It set its limbs and waggled its behind, just like a cat aiming for a mouse. It leapt; I chopped.

Screaming, I rocketed into the canopy. I caught at a branch and clung to it dearly. When I had cleared the leaves from my face and caught my breath I looked down. Ethrendil was on the ground covering the  _warg_  with his spear. Mirendil was up in a tree with my bow. The  _warg_  was half in the pit, hanging off one edge. It scrabbled with its front paws, trying to hump itself forward. It snapped at Ethrendil's spear – I think it was trying to get some purchase with its jaws. Finally, its damaged foot gave way and it fell back into the pit, whimpering.

It was then that we faced a dilemma. Once you have caught your wolf, what do you do with it? We couldn't release it, for it would have gone back to its ravaging ways. If we left it there it would starve to death, a fate I do not wish on anybody. Obviously, we had to kill it, and yet it looked so helpless and pathetic now. Finally, Ethrendil raised the spear to cast it down into the pit. The  _warg_  howled 'Free me!'

'Oh come  _on,_ ' I shouted down, 'if we let you go, what will you do?'

'Eat you!' it snarled.

'Well?'

It thought for a moment. 'Perhaps I won't eat you, then. I shall run red ruin on the country. Ferocious will be my mastery of the land. But you shall be safe.'

'That's not good enough.'

It sighed. 'I will guide you through the ragged lands, safely shall you come to the grey Sea.'

'And then?'

'Eat everything.'

'Then no, we won't free you.'

'This isn't fair! I have a right to live.  _You_  eat meat, I can smell it on your breath.'

'That's different.'

'Why, little girl?'

'Because you are in the pit, and I am not!' said I, unable to think of with a better answer.

'That is good  _wargtalk,_ ' it laughed. 'Let me out, Lady, be my rider. We will be great and terrible and all shall know us.' It made a lunge, as if to get out of the pit.

'There is war between our tribes,' I said, stepping back, 'and if I release you those I call friend will die.' I nodded and Mirendil sent the spear that took its life. It died whimpering. We pierced it several times to make sure it was dead and then cut off its head. We filled in the pit and laid many rocks.

I have done many things between then and now. That is a thing that I regret, yet I do not know what I should have done differently. Riddle it out for me, if you can. It was a thing of evil. But what would  _I_  have said, if I was in the pit? I hunt little, and only for food. Yet for all my reasons, rabbits and deer would hate me if they knew me.

Pity, pity is a terrible thing. Remember that.

I hadn't known that  _wargs_  could talk.

_Next: Bandits!_


	5. Bandits!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'But I must admit,' he added with a queer laugh, 'that I hoped you would take to me for my own sake. A hunted man sometimes wearies of mistrust and longs for friendship.'_
> 
> _The Fellowship of the Ring_

**S** o I fell in the river again. I needed a wash, badly. It's water, I tell you – it's  _evil_. Mirendil and Ethrendil pulled me out again but, what with the (evil) cold water, I was soon sneezing and coughing and shivering quite splendidly. They were a little worried about me, bless their Elvish hearts, and started looking for a place to spend the night. Fortunately, their antique map had those funny little Traveller's Marks on it, one of which said there was a house of refuge nearby.

Tramping through thick brush for another two miles got us to a pretty little glen. It looked wild, with many flowering plum trees dotted around. Off to the side, hidden almost as well as a Hobbit's, was a Big Person's house, half dug into the hill. No-one answered when we knocked but the great doors swung loose so we went on in.

Inside was one big room, built in a long, straight-raftered style. Running down the middle was a shallow trench lined with fire-blackened tiles and against the walls were a number of nooks padded for sleeping. We lit a fire at one end and I huddled there in the driest clothes I had. By this point we were down to flour and water, marvellous, so Mirendil and Ethrendil headed out to find roots, herbs, berries, anything to make dinner more interesting.

Shortly after they left, a man walked in. He was tall, even for a Big Person, clad in gear that had seen a lot of walking. He was all shaggy and wild-looking, as if he had been sleeping rough for a long time, and he had a lot of weapons on him.  _They_  didn't look rough, they looked extremely well looked after.  _Help!_  I thought to myself,  _he looks like a bandit! What do I do?_

I couldn't think of anything, so I just kept on puttering around. By extensive rummaging through my pack I actually found my missing salt-box, which pleased me greatly, and I started mixing up batter for savoury pancakes for when the Elves came back. All this while, I was keeping an eye on him, and on my bow and quiver of arrows – just in case. The bandit only glanced at me and started building his own camp at the other end of the hall. And then another bandit walked in, dressed in dirty green like the other one. They greeted each other quietly and ignored me.

The next one had a deer slung over his shoulder.

All three bandits plus several others who came in later started dressing out the deer and cooking it. They seemed very inoffensive bandits, really. No skulls strung on belts or necklaces of dried ears adorned them.  _Honestly_ , I thought,  _you'd think that a band so well-organised as this seems to be would do better for themselves. Where is the stolen gold, or the plan for raiding a fortress?_ Finally, I boiled a kettle of water, dumped my last tea-leaves in it, and walked over to the group of bandits. 'Excuse me sirs,' I said cheerfully, 'I was wondering if you'd care to join me in a nice cup of tea.'

I admit it, I am a curious person. I wanted to know what they were talking about. Sneezing by yourself is very boring. Also, I didn't have enough arrows to hold them all off if that should be necessary and, if they were planning on hanging me on a hook in the larder for tomorrow's breakfast, I should prefer to pass the remaining hours genteelly. As it happens, they were  _very_  genteel bandits. I talked for a long time with their leader, an upright old gentleman called Longshanks. He knew a lot about herbs, actually, and gave me a tea that cleared my nose right up. He had very interesting things to say about some of the humbler herbs: comfrey, yarrow, kingsfoil, fennel and others. It was fascinating. I passed on some of what Bungo had told me about gardening, and we got along very well.

'I must say,' I said at one point, 'you seem very civilized for bandits in lands that do not know the king.'

This seemed to amuse them – I never did find out why. 'We could not be otherwise in your presence, Lady Hobbit,' Longshanks said.

'Miss Took,' I replied. 'There are no Lords and Ladies where I come from – though the Tooks have held the Thaneship in the Shire for many years. My friends call me Belladonna. Please do.'

He spread his hand on his chest and bowed forward. 'Argonui son of Arathorn.'

It was about this time that I realised that Mirendil and Ethrendil had come back and were chatting with the bandits. In Elvish, but of course. Then we all had dinner.

**L** ater, Argonui manoeuvred me into a corner and quizzed me as to our intentions. I watched Mirendil and Ethrendil show a dance to the poker-faced bandits at the far end of the hall and told him our story – up the Brandywine, down to the Havens, all that. He got that crinkled look around the eyes that grown-ups have when they think you're doing something foolish. 'I would not hinder the Eldalië,' he said slowly, 'yet I hesitate to let you go with them.'

'What?'

'It is dangerous here, more so even than in the spring. I cannot guarantee your safety.'

I spluttered. Across the hall, oblivious, Mirendil and Ethrendil were treading a Shire dance, the Rose and the Lark, I think, humming the tune with voices sweet and pure, like wise ancient flutes. 'I needed no tuppeny-ha'penny bandit guaranteeing my safety when they pulled me from the river, or when we trapped the wolf. Safety is not a guarantee anywhere –'

'Less so here. My scouts tell me goblins are massing by the dark lake, and it has been uncanny for many years.'

'It doesn't matter,' I said. 'Those two are going to the Sea, and I promised to go with them.' He looked doubtful.

'You think me small,' I said, 'and Hobbits  _are_  small. But we keep large promises. Down the Brandywine is a bridge, a great bridge, the Bridge of Stonebows. The King up at Norbury asked us Hobbits to mind it, back in the day. He's gone now, but we're still here and we still keep that bridge. I could do no less.'

That quelled him. There's nothing more daunting than a Took on her mettle. Or  _his_  mettle, as my Great-Great-Uncle Bandobras (the Bullroarer) found in the Battle of Greenfields (when he invented golf). I told old Argonui all about it:

_Bright the day, clear the sky_  
 _Black the birds in the dark tree calling_  
 _Golfimbul cowered, Bullroarer stern  
_ _Hewed his head to the green grass falling_

and then it rolled into a rabbit-hole, becoming History's first recorded hole-in-one. I must say, Argonui seemed very impressed. My rendition (quite spirited) had gathered an audience, so I asked him to tell a story himself.

'Oo,' said Ethrendil, jumping up and down, 'Tell her about Finrod Felagund playing a harp in the forests of Ossiriand, when he first met Men. I always liked that one.'

'Or about Gondolin the Singing Rock, where they hid from the Orc Wars and made beautiful things' added Mirendil, 'or how the Moon fell in love with the Sun, and got a sunburn. Or of Ulmo the Sea-Dweller and his shining horn.'

'You've already told me most of those ones,' I said, looking up at them, 'but who is this Finrod, anyway? Mirendil and Ethrendil keep talking about him.'

Argonui rubbed his chin, a fancy ring on his finger shining in the firelight.

'Finrod Felagund, the hewer of caves, was an Elven king, the first friend of man. And he was a good friend. To redeem a promise he went into the dark, into the toils of one I will not name, and wrestled a wolf, and killed it. It was a great deed. Because of him, Beren One-Hand lived to steal back a silmaril, that still shines in our sky as a beacon of hope. Because of him, there is light in this crooked land, dim though it sometimes shines. Because of him, there is room for young Hobbits to go on holiday excursions to the Sea.

'Yet I can regret that deed, for it killed him. Do you remember that, little Belladonna.'

It was a good story, I was enjoying it, but then he had to put a moral in. Bleh.

_Next: Lake Evendim_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator's Notes:
> 
> It is a delight to find, alone of the Westmarch material, a description of a Dúnedain long-house (for the Bandits most probably were such). Mrs Baggins has done a great service to history in this, and in her eye-witness views, however sketchy, of Lake Evendim and the Grey Havens. No other material comes close to describing these sites.
> 
> though the Tooks have held the Thaneship in the Shire for many years … Since 740 (SR), when Isumbras I became the thirteenth Thane.
> 
> Chieftains of the Dúnedain: Aranarth, Arahael, Aranuir, Aravir, Aragorn I, Araglas, Arahad I, Aragost, Aravorn, Arahad II, Arassuil, Arathorn I, Argonui, Arador, Arathorn II, Aragorn II. The Ar prefix means 'high' or 'noble'.


	6. Lake Evendim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In the North after the war and the slaughter of the Gladden Fields the Men of Westernesse were diminished, and their city of Annúminas beside Lake Evendim fell into ruin …_
> 
> _The Fellowship Of The Ring  
> _

**M** r Longshanks the Bandit (Argonui to his friends) was telling us all a story about this Elvish hero, Felagund. He'd been trying to make a point, which I always think is a bad idea. So, we'd got to the part where the hero dies to save his friend – it's very sad – and then we should cheer up because he didn't  _really_  die, he went off to live somewhere else, except they buried his body on an island in a river somewhere where it would remain imperishable for all time, but the island isn't there anymore, it drowned. Meanwhile, the other hero, his lady friend,  _and_  a dog (somebody else's) went off to … I got confused.

Fortunately, at this point Ethrendil the Elf jumped in with a funny story from his ancestral homeland involving three tall trees, two small pinecones, a brindled rabbit and a silver hair-ribbon. Then he got sad, because his homeland is under the water too.

'The trees of Ossir, of the Seven Rivers,' he chanted, 'quiet in the night before ever we cried  _Elu!_ before we shouted  _see the stars_! they sleep in a darkness that will not end until the world is ended. Under the sunlit seaspray, the stricken storms, they dream. What can they dream of? Fish flock in branches where silver streamers hung, crabs crouch quietly where once our songs were sung …' He drifted off, eyes intent on a _something_  that I couldn't see. I shivered. Merry as a child he and Mirendil could be, but sometimes they made me feel very, very small.

Then Mirendil started quoting a poem, it went something like:  _'Fairer than silver or ivory or pearls'_  but I hate to admit that I very rudely interrupted and asked her if it had anything to do with drowning. She looked a little shifty at that, so I excused myself and went to roast apples with the younger bandits down the hall.

And was it wrong? All I know is that some griefs are too big for me. Hobbits do not remember where we came from; I doubt any would notice if we went. It's better that way, maybe.  _Hah_ , I thought to myself,  _I've found a virtue, Bungo Baggins. You should be proud_. I resolved to tell him, the next time we were together, and fell asleep with apple juice sticky on my fingers.

**I** t was cold grey morning when I woke up. The bandits had gone, and Mirendil and Ethrendil sat wrapped in blankets, talking quietly. They smiled like sunlight when they saw me awake, and handed me a plate of pancakes. 'They lent us a boat,' Mirendil said cheerfully.  _Oh dear_ , I thought.

It was a skinny little thing. The Elves sat one behind t'other grasping spindly oars in each hand and put me at the back end so I could see where we were going and call directions (they were facing the wrong way). It was all very grand, once we had the baggage balanced and I stopped shivering with … cold. A very chilly morning, as I recall.

We were off! Think of smooth green water, broad and easy, tickled on each side by the treelets with one little toothpick of boat sculling across the water and you turn a corner and – for the first time – mountains! Promise me, dear, that some time in your life you will seek out mountains. There's nothing like them, grey hump-shouldered, white crowned. Amazing. I couldn't see the lake they cradled yet but, gosh, it was going to be good!

Despite the bandits' warning, we didn't see any trouble on the river. We were careful, staying away from the shore when we could and camping in deepest secrecy at night. They'd left us some supplies, too, so we had more to eat than flour.

'What do we know about Lake Evendim?' I asked one night, as we cooked our supper over a tiny fire.

Ethrendil pulled his nose thoughtfully. 'There was a city there,' he commented. 'A big one. Called Annúminas. The Tower of the West.'

'Or, City of the Western Men,' chimed in Mirendil, tugging a comb through her pale hair.

'Western Men?' I said blankly.

'You know, like the High King you were talking about before. Refugees from Andor.'

'Right,' I nodded. 'They still there?'

'I don't think so. They shifted the capital to Fornost a while back. King's Norbury.'

'King's Norbury? Dead Man's Dike!' I exclaimed. 'Why would anyone want to  _move_  there? It's  _haunted_. Still, the lake should be nice and peaceful now.'

Yes, we really did say that.

**T** he trouble with Lake Evendim, we discovered, is it's got Goblins. How do I describe the place? Right. In my Great-Aunt Rosabella's cousin's ornamental garden, the one by the Folly, there's a statue of a lady in grey stone, with drapy old-fashioned clothing. She's holding her hands out cupped, and when it rains water collects in them. Nobody really goes there anymore, so the hands are covered with lichen and the water's usually black and a bit stinky. That's what Lake Evendim is like, except that along one edge you can see the remains of tall graceful buildings broken and tumbled into the water. Oh yes, and there's Goblins.

When we first got to the lake there was a noxious grey fog blanketing the water, so we didn't notice them at first. There was a nasty smell, but we couldn't really tell the difference from the water until we heard the swearing. At that point the fog lifted a little and we saw the boat, a nasty square black thing with screwed on wheels dipping into the water. From one end a straggle of smoke staggered into the sullen air – I thought at first that they'd set their boat on fire, but they kept poking about with lighted tapers so I guess they needed it. They were dead in the water.

It is always interesting to speculate on would-have-beens. For example, two Elves and a Hobbit, one spear, one bow, against a troop of Goblins, assorted pointy rusty bits, but no missiles. Trust me, if they'd had missiles they would have thrown them. Who would have won? I am doomed to speculation, for when Mirendil and Ethrendil saw the Goblin boat, they started rowing away from it. The Goblins tried to follow, but their boat wouldn't move. They had to paddle with whatever stick came to hand. This didn't work very well, but there were lots of Goblins so we weren't outpacing them as fast as we'd like.

The Goblins howled –  _yrch_ , Mirendil called them. The blood of Bandobras Bullroarer roared in my ears. The Battle of Greenfields, of Golfing fame, is but a tiny part of the hatred between Goblin and Hobbit that passes back to the utter dawn of both our races.

Unable to row, I snatched up my little bow and strung it awkwardly. Feverishly I groped after my arrows only to realise they were in the baggage at the far end. I hate boats. Separated by water, all we could do was hurl insults:

'I ate your mother with rabbit stew and I couldn't tell which was which!'

'Care for a game of golf?'

'Warg-bait!'

'Unwashed, lice-ridden abominations of iniquity!'

'Yeah, what?'

I was standing half-crouched at my end of the boat, clutching the bilbo. Neither the Goblins nor myself were foolish enough to try swimming in that wretched water. The fog lifted some more, and I realised it wasn't just black, there were odd coloured stains in the water and large slow bubbles rising up from I don't know where. Mirendil and Ethrendil said nothing but rowed, skipping our boat across the water.

Then the fog lifted all the way, like magic, and I could see a beautiful blue sky and a cheerful sun, shining down as if to tell us everything was going to be all right. I could also see ten more Goblin boats, dotted around us. They looked at us in surprise.

I clambered valiantly to my feet and brandished the bilbo. 'I'll dance the Springle-Ring on your graves!' I shouted, waving my fist. The blade of the bilbo caught the light, blinding me. I lost my balance and swayed back, thinking with horror of the black water. The boat jigged.

I was falling …

_Next: Under The Dark Lake_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator's Notes:
> 
> Belladonna seems to give a reasonable, though much truncated, synopsis of one episode from the Geste of Beren and Luthien Tinúviel.
> 
> Alas, there is no other record of Ethrendil's tale of the trees, the pinecones, the rabbit, and the ribbon. It is regrettable that Mrs Baggins did not see fit to include it in her extensive memoirs, for there are very few examples of authentic Elvish Humour.
> 
> The phrase 'Fairer than silver or ivory or pearls' repeats, or is repeated by, the same phrase in Akallabeth, regarding the death of one Míriel/Ar-Zimraphel/Tar-Míriel, doomed Queen of Númenor and the last to die when Númenor sank beneath the waves. The similarity in names may have been why Mirendil (jewel-lover) chose to tell a story about Míriel (jewel-maiden), or possibly it is just that drowning was on her mind.


	7. Under the Dark Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _… the dangerous part about caves: you don't know how far they go back … or where a passage behind may lead to, or what is waiting for you inside._
> 
> _The Hobbit  
> _

' ** _U_** _nder the sky there is a land_ ,' I chanted,  
 _And in the land there is a hole  
_ _And in the hole there is a hobbit  
_ _And in the hobbit is his lunch (too small!)  
_ _And in his lunch there is a seed  
_ _And in the seed there is a tree  
_ _That hurdles and gurdles ever so  
_ _And in its branches holds the sky –'_

Bungo looked up from weeding his flowerbed. 'It's your turn to answer,' I said.

'That wasn't a riddle,' he answered, carefully disentangling each tiny root of the weed before putting it in his bucket.

'Details, details,' I sighed. It was a hot summer day and I was bored with our game. I slouched on my tree branch and looked out over the bumps and dips of the Shire. ' _Before birth: I am many, I am red. After birth: I am one, I am the moon. My death is swift; my decrease increases others.'_

'Apple pie,' said Bungo, laconically.  _'Oliphaunt don't know it. Troll don't know it. Under the sky the wild high mountain don't know it. Mouse knows it. Bug knows it. What is it?'_

'No idea,' I said rapidly. 'You win. Tell you what,  _I'll_  get you to make me some lemonade and  _you_  can tell me the answer.'

He smiled, as slowly as a stalk of wheat grows. 'Miss Belladonna, you are a caution. I need to garden, before the weeds shoot up like your great tree, pretty though it was. I had it all clear in my mind, like. It even put me in mind of my riddle.'

I sighed. 'You could hire a gardener to do that. And  _how_  can a tree know what a bug knows?'

He held up a finger to explain. 'Consider –'

And I woke up.

**C** onfinement grows heavy on me and the rations make me queasy. Please believe me when I say that this is unpleasant for a hobbit. All I can do is wait, and wait, and write this. I trust you find it entertaining.

Under the sky there is a lake, and under the lake is a ruin of stone that somehow keeps a bit of air in it, and under  _that_  it is dark and wet and horrible. I wanted to go back to my dream, but I was shivering too hard to sleep. There was a tinderbox in my pocket, but the contents had been soaked, which made me very grumpy. Feeling around without light, I discovered a chill flood of water flowing through the cave I was stranded in. Reason indicated that this was how I had arrived. Nothing would have compelled me to enter it again. I could feel a clammy draught, and followed it until I reached high walls of dressed stone. The stone was so soft and rotten that I could carve deep marks in it with my little bilbo.  _And_ it stayed sharp. That was a good knife. In any case, I found myself wandering through dark halls for a long time.

_**U** nder the sky there is a lake  
_ _And in the lake there is a darkness  
_ _In the darkness is a king  
_ _A dead king, a stone king  
_ _And there he sits a-gathering dust_  
That fluffles and fliffles ever so …

I'd found a big hall of statues. It was very dry and dusty. Big globes - some holding a bit of light - were set on pedestals around the shadowy figures. Each had an inscription in Elvish, and I puzzled out the letters slowly. This is Tar-Míriel the last Queen of Numenór … Eldacar the White Haired … Here stands Arantar of the Bow … Valandur, who swore never to die. This last wasn't in the rows of standing figures, but sat brooding in a great chair in front of a shallow, empty pedestal. He had a stone goblet full of dust clasped in one withered hand, and he looked very old.

My clothing was only a little damp by now, and my legs were very shaky, so I sat down and chewed some beef jerky and sipped a little water. I slept.

I dreamed that the stone king picked up his goblet and drank the dust in it. Then he took the Tar-Míriel lady by the hand and danced the Rose and Lark down the aisle with her, the other statues accompanying with drums and fiddles. All this was terribly absurd, because the Rose is strictly for flutes and whistles (I'm joking), so I turned my back on them and dreamed of apple pie instead.

When I woke, I got up and walked around the room again. I was feeling very sorry for myself, now. My companions were either dead or had escaped from the Goblins. I hoped they were alive. Truly I did.

**I**  was very thirsty. And this was a dull way to end my story – dying in a hole.  _Belladonna_ , I said to myself,  _get moving. So you're afraid? I bet Bandobras Bullroarer was scared of Goblins. And he went out to Greenfields and History. Drink dust here or go back into the dark._

**I** n my younger days, dreaming of adventure, this situation never would have crossed my mind. There were no bloodthirsty trolls, gnolls, bag-snatchers, ratchets, boggles, harflits, or Goblins out to skewer my gizzards. No danger – none at all. I stood in the doorway for hours.

**B** ungo had said:  _Consider the virtues of being small_. I'd never really worked out what he meant.  _The riddle of the seed,_ he'd added But it  _wasn't_ a riddle. This infuriated me. I resolved to tell him off the next time I saw him, for pretending to be simple and then throwing comments like  _that_  at me. Bah.

I realised that I was now striding through the corridors in righteous indignation.  _I'm lost anyway_ , I thought,  _might as well keep moving._

I went up. Because the upper halls were very dry, I speculated that I might not be  _under_  the lake anymore, but in tunnels at the  _edge_  of the lake – perhaps under the ruins that I had seen earlier. How I had gotten there I wasn't sure, because all the currents (according to my Elven friends) were running the wrong way. Perhaps they had rescued me after all, and stashed an unconscious comrade safely out of the way while fighting the Goblin Hordes? If I had braved that inky, chill stream of water, would I have been in open air already? What a horrible thought.

However, my upwards and outwards strategy prevailed. With effort, I was eventually skinnying through broken rock, dirt, and, tellingly, tree roots. It was good that I hadn't been eating heartily lately, because it was very narrow.  _Consider the virtues of being small, Bungo Baggins_ , I thought,  _is this what you had in mind?_  After an age I saw my hands moving in front of me. I smelt damp earth and tree mould, and heard the faint singing of birds.  _O, beautiful, beautiful - thrice beautiful_.

**T** hen I encountered a horrible rank smell. I heard Goblins shouting  _Fresh meat! Fresh meat!_ (I know a very few words in Goblin – don't tell my Aunties).  _And I heard something else_. Well. Strenuous horizontal wriggling soon got me into a very different set of tunnels, where the Goblins had burrowed, rat-like into the hills around Evendim. I found a cavern, ringed about with filthy, smelly, shouting Goblins, faces lit red by a fire near one end of the cave (where I peeked out of a knee-high crack in the wall). A cauldron was hung over the fire and some barrels of stinky beer stood near it. A big shouting Goblin was by the cauldron, exhorting the crowd: I had arrived at a special occasion. As I expected, my friends were soon dragged in.

They were bound. Ethrendil's dark hair, loose from its comb, hung in rags about his pale face; Mirendil had blood on her temple and swayed on her feet. The Goblins shouted, nastily, chopping the air with their words. The Elves sang back like trumpets, like the scent of snow, like the rising Moon. I wish I could sing like that. Anyway, the big Goblin suddenly stopped screaming, as if he waited for them to say something.

That's when I stabbed him in the leg. It was a beautiful moment. He staggered, flailing about with his axe, and broke the barrels, which put out the fire, and when it was dark all the Goblins panicked. I slipped into the mess (this was scary) and freed the Elves who said 'Where have you _been?_ ' (as if it was  _my_  fault I got lost). Then we couldn't get out, so we hid in a shadowy nook and watched, as the Goblins re-lit their fire and beat about for us.

It was a bit worrying.

'Right,' whispered Ethrendil, 'There's the door. I'll distract them, while you two make a run for it.'

'But –' we said.

There was thunder, and a great crashing of light.

_Next: The Grey Havens_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator's Notes:
> 
> Kings of Arnor, as listed in the Red Book: Elendil, Isildur, Valandil, Eldacar, Arantar, Tarcil, Tarondor, Valandur, Elendur, Eärendur


	8. The Grey Havens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _… the Sea became a word of fear among them, and token of death …_
> 
>  
> 
> _The Fellowship of the Ring_  
> 

'The ancient seat of the Kings of Numenor,' said Gandalf, puffing furiously on his pipe, 'and you've been wandering through it scrawling  _Belladonna Took was here_  on the walls.'

'Of course I didn't,' I protested. 'I was busy finding my way out. It's just  _B_ s with arrows.' My Elvish friends, wisely, didn't say a word. But they smiled. I could hear it behind me, at the back of the boat, as we rocked gently on the Lune river.

We had borrowed another boat from the Bandits (old friends of Gandalf's) who had arrived at the very nick of time to rescue us from the Goblin caves. Then there had been an exciting bit with lots of fighting which would have been a lot more fun, mark you, if we hadn't had to pick up all the dead bodies afterwards. The Bandits had sighed with relief as they sent us on our way, making us promise never to blunder into military manoeuvres again. Ever. I said I'd try.

There remained an important question. 'Whither have you wandered, O Wizard,' said I, 'and what did you there?'

He gave me a Look. 'I was by the Tower Hills,' he said, 'looking for you – or rather, your friends.'

'Oh, we surmised that, if you found us, you'd make us go home,' said Ethrendil blithely.

'So we took a detour,' said Mirendil.

'I can see that.'

 **A** fter the kerfuffle on the lake, the trip down the Lune river was very quiet. This is not a  _bad_  thing, as such, but it was much more fun to  _do_  than to read about, so I won't go into much detail. Only, there was Mirendil in a patch of sunlit grass, with blackberry leaves in her hair and a smudge of juice on her cheek. Ethrendil always reminded me of a stork, standing on a rock with his carven spear and the wind stealing strands of his inky hair. If memories were leaves, I'd tuck those away in my scrapbook and, when I were old, I would open it up and gently touch them and remember summer. Except, by then, they'd be withered and old too. Drat it, metaphors never go the way you want them to.

Then, one day, a wind came from the West. It did not smell of pondweed and blackberry. It smelled of wildness and freedom, and of danger. I heard the crying of an unknown bird. 'What is that?' asked Mirendil, her face turned to the wind.

'It is the Sea.'

 **I**  would rather not write of this, but the tale is not complete without it.

The Lune river widens out into a long firth, the Gulf of Lune, that is largely protected from the wild sea. Where it opens out, there is Mithlond. It is an odd place. On one side of the harbour is a town of Men. They run a small fleet of fishing boats, and a little merchant trade. It is a pleasant enough place to live, I suppose.

Over the river are the Grey Havens.

All you see at first are the towers of stone. Even when the clouds are thick and the Sun hides her face they hold a pearly glow. There is a smooth sheen on the stone as if the long years only polished it clean and made it more itself, if you take my meaning which you probably don't. I'm sorry, I can't find the words to explain it properly. They are so lovely. As if whoever built them was saying to visitors  _Here you are! Welcome! Isn't this land beautiful?_

Past the towers are shipyards.  _A_  shipyard. There were two boats there – one was only half-finished. I could see Elves working on it, slowly and steadily. From where we were standing the boats looked tiny, not fit for stormy seas. An old gentleman came towards us, very tall, in a long robe. I couldn't tell what he was. I've never heard of an Elf with a beard, let alone a grey one, yet there was a light behind his eyes that did not look Mannish. He bowed and said, 'All is now ready.'

Mirendil and Ethrendil bowed back. Then they knelt – to my height – and hugged me for a good long time. Fool that I was, I was thinking  _Hey, we're going for a boat ride now!_  I may even have babbled something like this, for they shook their heads.

'We're going away,' Mirendil said.

'It was meant to be,' added Ethrendil, seriously, then, 'I'm sorry.'

And they walked away, almost dancing, to music that I couldn't hear. Gandalf had a hand on my shoulder, gentle but inescapable, or I would have clung to their legs like a two-year-old. Like I said: a fool. They climbed into the little boat, just the two of them, and let down the sail. I looked up at the towers then, and I knew that they also said:  _Goodbye, good journey, remember us._  'Wait!' I shouted, running after the departing ship. 'Wherever you're going, you might need a knife!'

I tossed the bilbo end over end. It landed with a solid thunk in the high bit at the back of the boat. Mirendil pulled it out and they both waved. I stayed watching as long as they were in sight, but there was a brisk wind that blurred my eyes: they were soon gone. I turned and saw Gandalf, looking out to sea with hunger in his face. Círdan beside him said, 'I will still be waiting,' whatever  _that_ meant. He took us back into his house and fed us, which I appreciated. It was very good food, too – Elvish stuff with berries in it.

Gandalf and I went back the short way, on the roads, keeping company with a salt caravan for part of the journey. There wasn't much of note. We stopped at one of the Towers in the Far Downs and looked back. You're supposed to be able to see the Sea from there, but it was too cloudy in the West. It was sunny by the tower though, and not too breezy, so we sat down for a noon meal. I looked up at the tower and couldn't see the top of it. 'Someday,' I vowed, 'I will climb this. But not today, for I am weary.' Gandalf said nothing. He was sitting with his back against the curving wall and his hat pulled over his face. I strongly suspect that he was napping. I patted the holly tree carved into the stone of the tower and settled down for a rest myself. Eating is very hard work.

 **I**  was back in Tuckborough by dusk, when all the lights were being lit in the round Hobbit windows. Great Smials was dark, though. It looked like the whole family had packed up for a holiday, as they sometimes do. I swung round to the slope below my bedroom hoping to break in, as I have done before. By then it was  _really_  dark and I was stumbling a bit. But under my window I walked surely for there was a lamp on the sill, shining with light, and fresh flowers. I was wondering at this, when the light was obscured and I saw a pair of legs wiggling wildly out of the window as they tried to get out. Then, with a groan, they were free and landed, with the rest of the hobbit, on the grass outside my room. It was Bungo, all perfectly combed feet, respectable breeches, lovely waistcoat, and slightly disarranged hair.

'Ah,' he said. 'Miss Belladonna. You're back.'

 **W** hat with one thing and another, Bungo and I got married a couple of years later (and if you think  _this_  story is wild, wait until you read about our wedding!).

I can no longer see my toes and soon, my dear, I will be meeting you for the  _very first time_. I hope that you don't mind but, boy or girl, I am naming you after the trusty little knife that served me so well in troubled times. We Tooks have always believed that peculiar names build character in the young.

I am going to seal this manuscript in a lead box and hide it under the latest pressing of Old Winyards. It has been a plentiful year, and nobody should find this for quite some time.

And this leads me to a final warning. My dear Bilbo: by the time you read this I shall be ever  _ever_  so respectable, so you mustn't breathe a  _word._

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translator's Note:
> 
> Due to fragmentary records, no date is known for the wedding of Belladonna Took and Bungo Baggins. However, their only, though very famous, child Bilbo Baggins was born in 1290 (SR); presumably the wedding was before then. This translator and editor wishes them every happiness, retrospectively.


End file.
